Several weeks ago I stepped on the scale and saw, to my bone-dissolving horror, that I’ve put on 18 pounds since The Wedding three years ago. (The wedding was that of our elder son, then aged 43, marrying for the first time.)
Quel horreur! The knowledge that this was entirely my own fault, owing to excessive self-indulgence, was not comforting. The question was, what was I going to do about it?
Two things: first, get rid of the sugar addiction. Second, start exercising every day. Well, nearly every day. All right, let’s say at least five days out of every seven.
Years ago, before I joined a gym, I used to do a three-mile walk most days in my neighborhood. This worked pretty well in nice weather. I was able to maintain a regular weight, even though I’m not a power walker, and even though I ignored all the advice in popular magazines geared to women. “Before you set out on your 45-minute exercise walk, you must moisturize your skin,” they trilled. “Apply your sunscreen half an hour before and be sure to protect your hair with a hat. Don’t forget to grab your sunglasses before you go. Oh, and make sure you do your stretches before donning your sweats!”
Not content with that, they added, “Get your Walkman situated comfortably, grab your water bottle, and be sure to lace up your shoes properly.”
“And,” I thought, looking at those instructions, “after you do all that you will have used up 39 minutes of your 45-minute exercise allotment.”
Hail, I just put on my walking shoes, crammed a hat on my head, and took off. I didn’t need a Walkman. Part of my job as a writer is to listen to sounds and categorize scents. How many sounds did I hear during my walk? How many scents did I smell, and what were they?
However, it’s difficult to go on walks now. First of all, the dog would want to go, and walking with him would mean half an hour of stopping, staring, sniffing, and, on my part, scooping, with no appreciable distance achieved. Second, I live in the allergy capital of the country. Third, there are millions of tiny flying things that sting one on a walk. Don’t like that.
The gym, on the other hand, is full of machines, exercise mats, resistance bands, and free weights. The temperature is agreeable all year round.
To put as few obstacles as possible in my way—I’m naturally lazy and love to put my feet up while leaning back in the recliner to read yet another book on my Kindle—I keep it simple. A sweatband, yes, but otherwise I wear my normal daytime garb of jeans, knit shirt, and clogs. I do have exercise shoes, which I carry in my bag, but they’re not lace-ups. They have Velcro fastenings. Am I going to waste time lacing shoes when I could be exercising? Besides, I’m inordinately clumsy and would trip on a badly tied shoelace.
The only time I wear the jogging shoes is when I row, because if I wear clogs to row, they come off.
A water bottle, yes, and the old iPad that the grandchildren let fall to the floor so it cracked. It still works well enough to let me read my Kindle book while I’m on the treadmill or elliptical. I can’t watch TV because there’s nothing worth watching, and even if there were, I couldn’t wear earphones. My hearing aids do not mix well with earphones.
No makeup, because when I row I sweat so much it runs down into my eyes, which makes wearing mascara exquisitely painful. Besides, no one’s going to look at an old bag like me anyway!
My trainer, whom I’ve hired to get me started with weight training, did question my choice of clothing. “Jeans, Diana?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I hate women’s exercise clothes,” I explained. “They have no pockets. I’m at the age where I have to have a Kleenex and a throat lozenge on my person at all times. The other pocket is for my iPhone.”
I refuse to be parted from my iPhone, so it’s a good thing I don’t swim. I am, however, a grandmother and my husband is even older than I. If Something Should Happen, I want to know about it straight away.
My trainer is training me to consume more protein, drink water first thing upon awakening, avoid white potatoes and white rice, and have a protein-filled drink or snack after working out. He also maketh me to sit on a yoga ball, pictured above. It’s the most uncomfortable thing in the world and makes my bottom sore, but I’m doing it. Ugh.
I’m also doing quite well getting to the gym most days. My excuses, after all, have vanished. The baby who used to occupy my days is now a toddler in day care five days a week, and Snowzilla has melted long since.
But the motivating factor that makes me grab my gym bag and head out the door five days out of seven is this: if I lose enough avoirdupois and exercise sufficiently, I might be able to ditch the blood pressure and cholesterol medications. And that would be absolutely fantastic!